Everyday is a fashion show and the world is your runway 💞
Photo cred: @photography_clique_
And a big thank you to @happydaysretro for so graciously giving us permission to use their shop for the perfect retro-style background 💕

Adding a pop of colour to this contemporary kitchen in North London. Opening up the space using crittall doors allowing light and views to other parts of the flat. (3/3)
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.#wrkbnch#wrkbnchfurniture#wrkbnchdesign

The tension in my body vibrating, I attempted to lower my naked shaking form into the water. The temperature, the sensation of smooth water it hitting my skin, the hard surface of the tub. All of it simply another hard-hitting blow of “too-much” in my amplified state of overstimulation. My nervous system was screaming, shouting, using every tool to rouse me awake. To make me recognize that something wasn’t okay. That my body wasn’t permanently fused in a fight because of the present circumstances of safety, but because after years of torture, abuse, and decay it could no longer sustain the normalization. It could not/would not deny reality anymore, and it was using anything it could to persuade me to believe it. Believe that what we were feeling, this devastating allodynia, wasn’t a result of the water, the tub, or the temperature but a result of the trauma. The truth. My reality.

I plunged myself into the water, turned off the lights, and sat in the dark breathing. One hand on my chest, the other resting on my stomach. My hands, even my own touch, firing panic and bile-inducing nerve pain. Warning me that I was hurting, I was in danger, something wasn’t right. This nerve damage disease I have suffered for 12 years is the clearest and most potent marker of my trauma. A disease that takes even the most innocuous stimulation and turns it into torture. A disease that is medically founded to be the most painful chronic illness on the McGill Pain scale. A disease that could simply, plainly, have a tagline that states, “Do not touch me, it hurts.” I work every single second to reframe that the touch of my fingers on this keyboard, the clothes on my back, the swallow of my throat, my feet on the ground is not a cause for panic. Restoration of the skewed and off-kilter reality that my body used as evidence to tell my brain to run.
Continued on the blog @skyler.mechelle